


Lazarus

by fowl68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Con Artists, Government, Guardian Angels, Lies, M/M, Manipulation, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowl68/pseuds/fowl68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five universes that never happened. And one that did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which 'Angel' is a Subjective Term

* * *

_  
_   


_Sometimes even the flight of an angel hits turbulence.  
~Terri Guillemets_

* * *

**One—In Which 'Angel' is a Subjective Term**

The human world is a dirty thing these days, Eames thinks. It used to be cleaner, easier to breathe, easier to see from one horizon to the other. Now there are skyscrapers and roads and factories whose smog clouds the sky.

He likes this world so long as he forgets about the machines. Machines are things that don't get along with him. But he likes the array of people, likes to see them making their choices—good or bad. They're so very different from angels—they'd been created with free will, Eames supposes, but they were all so full of adoration for Him (Something he guesses that He deserves) that it didn't even matter—and Eames revels in the differences.

It's part of why he's not really welcome among his brothers anymore, really. He's too free-thinking for them, although Father didn't seem to mind, even seemed to enjoy the break in monotony. So he spends his days down here, walking the streets and gambling what little money he has on him—not that it matters. Angels, even technically disowned ones, don't need money—and occasionally, he'll see one of his brothers accompanying a human in and he'll wonder what scheme He has for that human and wishes him the best.

So when he's walking through New York—not one of his favorite cities; too much metal, but he makes the occasional stops here if only for the strange meshing of cultures—and spots one of his brothers standing on a fire escape, leaning against the railing and looking entirely too sophisticated for the apartment, his interest is piqued.

"And who's your charge?" Eames asks when he reaches the fire escape. He isn't visible to people right now—a useful tool in their arsenal since humans were generally panicky when they saw winged beings—and it feels good to be able to stretch his wings. Keeping them confined to shirts and coats gets itchy and uncomfortable after a few hours.

The other angel flicks dark brown eyes at him. He's different from most angels—not lovely, blonde and golden, but rather black-haired and fairly pale, but still decently handsome—but it's more than looks. It's in the set of his shoulders and in the subtle fidgeting of his hands—long-fingered and deceptive in their veiling of his strength. He's a more common variety of angel, the kind who guards the humans and doesn't really get an official name as far as the world is concerned.

"Who are you to care?"

Eames smiles a little. It's been a while since he's had a good conversation with another angel (and it's so sad that this is the best conversation he's had in a good few months). "Come on now, darling. I'm not here to kill them, if that's what you're so paranoid about."

"You didn't answer my question. And don't call me that."

The smile widens. And he'd thought that other angels didn't have this much fight in them when it wasn't when of those 'end-of-the-world' scenarios. "Eames. My name is Eames."

The other's face changes, eyes studying and cataloging. "…You're Eames?"

"Does my reputation precede me?"

"Is that such a strange thing to hear?"

"Actually, it is." Eames isn't sure how much his brothers talk about him, but apparently, whatever they say is enough for this angel to know of him. "And your name?"

"…Arthur."

The pause makes Eames a little suspicious. "You wouldn't happen to be lying to me?"

"No, never," Arthur drawls and Eames knows a subtle rebel when he knows one.

"So who's in this apartment?" Eames leans down to look through the window. There are four people in there. A man, a little older, with a beautiful blonde girl who has his smile on his lap with a little boy, equally blonde, sitting on the floor and playing with blocks. A woman, dark-haired with tints of red, is curled on the floor beside the boy and absentmindedly building a tower. "You can't be guarding the four of them?" It would be a rare assignment for a single angel to guard so many people.

Arthur shook his head. "The man. Dominic Cobb."

"A fun job, I hope."

Arthur's brow furrows a little and his wings ruffle. "The man gets into far too much trouble for his own good."

Eames laughs. "Better than guarding someone boring."

Arthur doesn't disagree, just leans back against the rusty railing and doesn't say anything when Eames leans beside him. "…Come for a drink with me, if it's that stressful," Eames offers.

"I have a job to do."

"They're fine. Picturesque, even. Learn to live a little." Eames wonders what this will do to Arthur's reputation among their brothers—after all, he's hardly the perfect angel and Arthur looks like he's used to doing things by the book, even if he doesn't act like it.

"Just because you don't like doing your job, Mr. Eames, doesn't mean that the rest of us feel the same." Eames sees the difference now; Arthur is more sharp-edged than their brothers, a few shades closer to gray. And Eames likes that.


	2. In Which There Might Be a Slight Misuse of Superpowers and a Strange Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every person with superpowers is a hero. Or a villain.

* * *

_  
_   


_"Deciding whether to trust a person is like deciding whether or not to climb a tree, because you might get a wonderful view from the highest branch or you might simply get covered in sap and for this reason, many people choose to spend their time alone and indoors where it is harder to get a splinter."_  
-Lemony Snickett  


* * *

Arthur wakes up to a man in the bed. It isn't an usually undesirable circumstance; right now, his issue is that he hadn't gone to bed with a man. Of that, he was sure of. He hadn't been anywhere near drunk last night. Hell, he hadn't even been tipsy.

So Arthur slips from the bed and starts coming up with possible scenarios because otherwise, he'd be panicking like the rest of the world and Arthur Owens does not panic.

But he doesn't get a chance to really think through his scenarios because the man is shifting, all broad shoulders with ripples of tattoos. He blinks at the man standing beside the bed and says, sounding very drowsy and very British, "…You think very loudly. Especially for this early in the morning."

Arthur runs through one of his original ideas; if he has powers—"gifts" his sister used to call them—then it stands to reason that others exist with powers also. Arthur suddenly feels like he should be drawn in a panel in a comic book and the reader of his life is thinking that this was getting rather ridiculous.

"What, can you read minds or something?" Arthur asks and he doesn't have to feign annoyance. He tries to make it sound like something easily blown off. No one's found out about his power since he was nine. He intends to keep that record.

The other man chuckles, a good sound that seems like it should rumble outwards. "Nope. Good guess though."

Arthur decides that—to an outsider—drunkenness is a far larger possibility than superpowers, so he tries for that cover story. "…How drunk was I last night?"

The other man seems to think about it, on his side with one arm resting on his hip. "…Actually, you were rather sober." He grins, all mischief and confidence. "It's almost like you didn't trust me enough to be drunk with me and, let me tell you something, darling, that hurts."

"Gee, let me think why. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I went to bed with a woman last night—"

The other man moves across the bed and, before Arthur's eyes, he's changing. Broad shoulders are becoming smaller, rounder. The muscular chest slims down, filling out into plump breasts. His waist thins into a pair of very womanly hips that taper into smooth legs that can probably go to Canada. The short hair lengthens into long, shimmering strawberry blonde, the strong, stubbled jaw morphing into the soft lines of a woman's face.

She smiles as she moves off the bed, the sheets falling as she does. "I didn't hear any complaints." The voice is significantly higher and very much not British. Her arms slip around his neck and Arthur is suddenly very aware that he isn't wearing clothes.

But he remembers the shift, remembers the man he'd woken up with and instinct flares, electricity dances up and down his skin, making her (him?) jerk away, eyes suspicious.

"You're a shapeshifter." Arthur says, though, in truth, it probably could have gone without saying. The electricity is still there, below his skin, as it always is, a comforting presence. _(His sister used to joke that, if their power went out, they had their very own human generator)_

The woman melts away until the man is there once again. "And you're a bloody human lightning rod. That was uncalled for, by the way," the man says, examining his slightly singed skin.

Arthur doesn't back down from the hint of temper he hears in the man's voice. "You started it." It's a bit childish, really, but it's the truth. Arthur usually doesn't have to resort to using his powers.

"I thought it was a bit strange that you weren't freaking out when you saw me changing." The man covers a yawn, stretching a little as he does.

"I don't freak out," he responds automatically.

An eyebrow arch that can give his sister a run for her money. "Oh really? So you zap everyone you sleep with? That's comforting."

Arthur rolls his eyes and starts looking for his clothes. He finds his pants half under the bed and his shirt near the door. "Your sarcasm is well-appreciated."

"Seriously speaking though, I didn't know any others existed."

"Neither did I." _(It was a partial lie, but it's the truth as far as the world is concerned)_ Arthur discovers a sock and his underwear near the dresser. He pulls the underwear and his pants on, ready to get out of Madrid. He's happy to find his wallet still in his back pocket.

"Don't you realize that that means there are more of us out there?"

Arthur's mind flashes to his sister, grinning at him as a candle-flame hovers in her palms when he was seven and she was five. _(She's gone now, long gone and wishing for her back wouldn't do him any good)_

"You want to go start your own X-Men, that's fine by me. Just leave me out of it."

"Not a team player, are you?"

"I could say the same about you."

"And what makes you think that?" The man's leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes following Arthur around the room. He's more intelligent than he looks, Arthur can tell.

"You seem like the type." Arthur shrugs his shirt on, buttoning it with quick, familiar movements.

"So, what, your plan is to go back to pretending that other people like us don't exist? Pretending to be normal? Pretending that this," the man gestures between them. "Never happened?"

"What happens in Madrid stays in Madrid."

"You've got the wrong city."

Arthur glances back at him. "What, have you got delusions of becoming a superhero? Is that what this is?"

"I'm not the hero type," the man answers honestly. "I'm more of the 'do illegal things and don't get caught' type."

Arthur pauses. He's been robbing banks for years now. Security systems always get mysteriously 'shorted out' and security guards are always found Tased at the scenes of the crimes. There's never any fingerprints to lead back to him because electricity works through gloves, so long as they're not rubber. "…You're a thief?"

"Something like that." The man's mouth quirks up in a smirk. "What, have I caught your interest?"

Arthur knows better than to pass up an opportunity when he sees one and this—meeting someone with these powers, never mind how unorthodox the meeting had been—is an opportunity to make enough money to retire.

"Actually, you have." Arthur turns back to the shapeshifter. "How do you feel about bank robbing?"

The smirk turns a little predatory. "That depends. How do you feel about con artists?"

"That depends on how good they are."

"Believe me, darling, I am very good at my job."

Arthur doesn't doubt it, with an ability like that. He holds out a hand. "I think this is going to be a rewarding partnership…" He doesn't know the man's name. He knew the woman's name-Linda-but the man is a very different person.

"Eames," the man replies, shaking his hand. "And you're Arthur, if I remember correctly."

"You do. And don't call me 'darling'."

"What, so distant after all we've shared?"

"It was one night and that one night's all you're getting. I don't mix business and pleasure," Arthur says.

"I think I can get you to change your mind."

"You can try," Arthur agrees. "But I doubt you'll succeed."

Eames grins. He's always loved a challenge.


	3. In Which Artists Must Have Their Caffeine Fix

* * *

_  
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_"Seduction is an art. Most can draw, but few can paint."  
-Anonymous_

* * *

It's been raining for several days now, so Eames doesn't know why he hadn't brought an umbrella. Or at least a plastic bag from the supermarket to cover his sketchbook. He grumbles to himself as he steps inside the small café, as familiar to him as his own apartment. He spends a lot of time here, usually working on quick-sketching people, but sometimes to meet potential clients.

But everyone has decided to take refuge here today—not shocking. Today's rain has been the worst this week—and Eames ruffles his short hair to get some of the water out of it. He catches the eye of Ariadne behind the counter—she works too hard to pay for college, though Eames can relate—and she flashes him a smile before she's distracted by another customer.

All of the tables are full except for the little booth in the back beside a window. Eames knows the booth well; it's the usual spot of one of his favorite quick-sketch subjects, a young man with dark curls that are generally gelled back, but apparently the rain had done its job today and his hair is curling loose around his face. His hoodie—worn in places, so it must be a favorite one—might have been black once, but now it's the color of the sky outside. His jeans are a little ragged at the hems, but are otherwise very neat and he's always sitting with that notebook, pen in hand.

Before Eames knows it, he's standing by the booth. "Mind if I take a seat?" he asks before taking a seat without waiting for a reply.

The young man glances up and Eames learns for the first time that his eyes are brown behind the rectangular glasses. As brown as the coffee in the Styrofoam cup by his left hand. "What, you don't have your usual spot saved?"

Eames finds it strange to know that someone other than Ariadne knows that he comes into this café nearly every day. "It seems to have been overrun by wicked witches."

Eames has been told he has an odd brand of humor. Usually, most people don't get it the first time. The young man—a writer, most likely, if that notebook is anything to go by—snorts a little as a reaction.

"So what are we? Good witches?'

"I can see myself as being the Wizard." Eames says. "You…I don't know. The Tin Man, perhaps."

"You think I'm heartless?" The writer has a good arched eyebrow look.

"I think you're in search of a heart. It's a very big difference, darling."

"Don't call me that. And you don't know me well enough to be judging me." He makes to go back to his writing, but Eames is enjoying this conversation too much to just let it go.

"What if I told you I'd like to know you well enough?"

"Then I'd tell you that we're not in the same boat." Eames wonders how the writer doesn't write what he's saying to Eames rather than what he means to write. He could never do that, talk and write at the same time.

"So heartless."

Ariadne finally makes her way to their table. Eames doesn't blame her for the delay; today is ridiculously busy. "What'll you have, Eames? The usual?"

"You know me too well."

Ariadne smiles, but it's tired around the edges. She turns to the writer. "You want another coffee, Arthur? Or something to eat?"

Arthur smiles politely at her and Eames notes that dimples work well on his face. "No thank you."

"Alright. I'll be back in a bit—hopefully."

Returning his attention to the writer, Eames finds his hands playing with the sugar packets that no one ever seems to use. "You don't seem like an Arthur."

"Is it because Arthur the Tin Man doesn't have a very good ring to it?"

"No. You simply…don't."

Arthur snorts again. "Ladies and gentlemen, logic has left the building. Or perhaps you simply never had it."

"That hurts. Really, right here." Eames taps his fingers over his heart. "…What are you writing?"

"A book."

"A budding novelist. Are you writing fiction? Non-fiction? I doubt you'd be writing a biography here, without references."

"It's fiction."

"What's the storyline?"

Arthur ignores his question and seems to finally notice the half-soaked sketchbook that Eames had protected beneath his shirt. "Are you an artist?"

"Yes."

"Please tell me it isn't modern art."

Eames' lips twitched. "I promise it isn't. I do have some manner of pride in myself after all."

Ariadne returns with Eames' chai tea—perhaps a bit of a stereotype, but his roommate back in college had gotten him hooked on the stuff. He thanks her before she has to rush off to another table.

"I thank you for that." Arthur sounds sincere. "It scares me sometimes, what people will consider art. I actually went to an art show once with a friend and there was this canvas, about…as floor to ceiling, maybe four feet long, that was painted entirely one color. That was it. And they were asking a ridiculous amount of money for it."

It's the most Eames has heard out of him. "And the sculptures that look like they might have been a masterpiece at one point before they were dropped and glued back together by an eight year old."

The corners of Arthur's lips tilted upwards a little. "Those too." He glances at the sketchbook that's still dripping a little onto the table. "May I look?"

"If you'll tell me what your book's about afterwards."

Eames can see Arthur considering it, can see him weighing the pros and cons. "…Alright."

Eames slides the sketchbook closer before leaning back in the booth and taking a sip of his tea. It's blessedly warm and he sighs in relief at the first sip. Arthur is careful with his sketchbook, gently peeling the pages apart and, if they refuse to be apart, he simply passes over them. Most of Eames' work is realistic, drawn from life. He likes observing people, likes to see different facets of their personality come out in the position of their bodies, in the shape of their mouths and the way they move their hands.

"They're very detailed." Arthur is unfazed by the fact that most of the subjects of Eames' art don't seem to realize they're being drawn. Lots of people tended to be a little wary of that.

"I like details."

He doesn't blush at the short series of nude works that Eames has worked on. It had been a little bit out of college so that he could have a better sense of proportions and the lines of the muscles in accordance to the limbs—not to say that he hadn't appreciated the other…activities he'd done with those people. "You liked this one. You drew her often."

Eames leans forward a little and smiles in remembrance. The sketch is likely going to be damaged and warped from the water, but that's alright. He can still recognize her. "She was my girlfriend right after college."

Arthur hums in acknowledgment, pushing stray, damp curls from his face with his free hand as he continues to look. He pauses when he gets to the beginning of the sketches Eames started in this café. Most of them tend to include him in one or another.

"Do you find me that interesting?" he asks. The man doesn't seem to like beating around the bush.

"What if I told you yes?"

"You're still in your own boat, Eames."

Eames grins a bit into his cup. "I was right. You are the Tin Man."

Arthur rolls his eyes. There aren't many more sketches in there now. A few studies of individual features, an entire page devoted to hands and various hand positions and a half done sketch of the café as a whole, seen from the far side of the counter.

"You're good at observation." Arthur says as he closes the sketchbook before sliding it back to him.

"Your turn to share."

Arthur stroked the edges of his notebook absently. "…It's about thieves."

"Not a topic I would have seen you going for."

Arthur pretends not to hear him. "Thieves that steal secrets from your dreams."

Eames leans forward on his forearms, setting his tea down. "Interesting…tell me more."


	4. In Which Hide-and-Seek Isn't Just a Children's Game+

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames takes the game of hide and seek to a whole new level. And Arthur is more than willing to play.

* * *

_  
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_Tempting really. To live by skill and courage. One long adventure._  
-Nemion **(Wolf Tower)**  


* * *

The first time Arthur hears his voice, he's sitting in a small bakery off of a busy New York street. He answers it automatically, still studying the case file given to him two days ago. "Conway."

The voice on the other line is deep and British. "Good morning, Agent Conway."

Arthur's hand stops midair, coffee in hand. "Who is this?"

"You already have the answer to that one, darling. It's probably even sitting right in front of you."

"Mr. Eames, I presume?" Arthur glanced around the small bakery, searching for someone on the phone. He found a few, but none of them matched the description given to him in the file, even though Eames was supposed to be excellent at disguising himself.

"So polite. I appreciate that. All the other agents were rather rude and very threatening."

"Well, we wouldn't want you to feel threatened, now would we?"

Eames chuckled. "I hope you're better at your job than they were, Agent Conway, otherwise this is going to be a very boring time for me."

"I assure you, I am."

"That's very good news to hear. You certainly look more competent—not many can pull off a suit like you can."

"Is that supposed to make me paranoid? I'm a government agent; we all wear suits."

"Ah, but one so nicely cut? How do you afford these things on a government salary, I wonder?"

"I told you I was good at my job." Now Arthur began looking outside of the bakery, figuring out all the angles from which he could be seen.

"You should stop trying to find me. You'll have plenty of time for that later. Game on." A click and then the dial tone.

* * *

A bottle of champagne arrives at the room he's staying in while in Paris, looking for the ever elusive thief. Arthur looks at it suspiciously, taking it out of the ice, peering into and around the bucket, searching for anything to clue him in as to why. He didn't even really like champagne.

He finds a folded piece of paper taped to the underside of the bucket. He unfolds it as he sits down, leaving the bottle in the ice. The handwriting is scratchy, but the ink flow smooth and thick, the kind from a nice pen.

_Agent Conway,  
_ _A celebratory gift from me to you. It's not every day one turns thirty, is it?  
_ _Best wishes,  
_ _Eames_

Arthur's eyes narrow at the gift and he pours the champagne down the drain.

* * *

Arthur tracks him to Venice and loses him somewhere after that. The thief is good, Arthur could grant him that. He sticks a Post-It to Venice and writes what he's learned here. The thief steals art from churches and museums alike, but the pieces never appear on the black market. One of the pieces stolen was found in a household of a young couple who had never heard the name Eames.

Arthur is poring over the map—Post-Its everywhere—trying to figure out where Eames'll go next. Room service arrives ten minutes later, a bottle of wine and a note in hand.

The note reads: _Not a fan of champagne? Neither am I. –Eames_

Arthur debates on drinking the wine, but chooses not to—he had no way of knowing whether it's poisoned or not, even though bodily harm is not part of Eames' repertoire. Instead, he writes down the name of the wine and starts looking for anyone who had bought it recently.

It's a long list, but Arthur finds a security tape of him in a little store run by a family from Tuscany. They're more than helpful, giving him a description and Arthur asks one of Venice's forensic artists for a sketch based on the information and sticks it with the other sketches of the thief's various disguises.

* * *

Eames calls him in the middle of the night. He doesn't wake him—Arthur likes to work late—but it's the principle of the thing that annoys him. "They should pay you extra for all this work, darling."

"Don't call me that."

"You've gotten much closer than all the others have. You're very good."

"You almost sound sentimental, Mr. Eames."

"I always think that there should be a special bond between fugitives and the people after them, don't you? And besides, Agent Conway, I think we're much closer than simply conman and agent."

"You're alone in your thoughts. I haven't even seen your face. Hardly the start of a good relationship." Arthur is tracing the call from his laptop and it's more difficult to keep Eames on the line than he would think. He's never liked long phone calls.

"You're a visual person, aren't you? I could give you a few good visuals if you like, free of charge."

"I bet you say that to all the agents."

"Oh no, Agent Conway, you're a very special case."

"I'm flattered," Arthur replies dryly. His laptop alerts him and he looks at the map, the red dot telling him where Eames is. "…How's Venezuela this time of year?"

"…Top marks. And as an additional side note, it's rather warm." Eames hangs up.

"Yes I thought it might be," Arthur murmurs to himself, already calling the local government to keep an eye out for someone matching Eames' description. He doubted that they'd catch him, but he couldn't afford to not take chances.

* * *

Arthur finds a safehouse in the snowy parts of Switzerland. It's hardly furnished, but there are many blankets and a squishy looking armchair by the fireplace, a table stacked with a few cheap paperbacks commonly found in airports beside it.

He leaves the wine bottle, still as yet unopened, and doesn't have to leave a note.

* * *

The first time Arthur sees Eames face to face is when he counts as their first meeting.

He's sitting in a rather cozy apartment in Mombasa so that he faces the front door. He hears footsteps coming up the stairwell and checks his watch. Arthur pulls out his phone when the doorknob jiggles slightly and calls Eames.

Through the door, he can hear _Sharp Dressed Man_ playing moments before the song stops abruptly and Eames' voice comes through. "Agent Conway, what a pleasant surprise."

The doorknob turns the whole way and Eames takes a few steps inside.

Arthur can't help the slight smirk of triumph on his face as he speaks into his phone. "Yes, I imagine it is."

Eames turns slowly to look at him, a wry smile playing at his lips. He's a handsome man, almost, stubbled, and his eyes are the color of stormy skies.

"Although," Arthur looks Eames up and down. The man's shirt is loud enough that it hurts Arthur's eyes a little. "I'd hoped you'd had a better sense of dress with all that you had to say about mine."

The wry smile widens a little and Eames doesn't close the door behind him. He stands tall and unafraid, very different from a lot of other fugitives that Arthur's caught. "Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion."

"No need," Arthur tells him, smoothly rising from his seat. "Aaron Eames, you're under arrest for grand theft and forgery."

"Oh is that all? That's all right then." Eames is rather impressed that the agent found out his name. He's the first agent who has. "I don't have your full name, Agent Conway."

"Arthur. Arthur Conway."

"Arthur." Eames rolls the name in his mouth. It's a good name for the man in front of him. Solid, uncommon, but not rare, strong and with a hint of sophistication. "How nice to meet you at last."

"Likewise, Mr. Eames," Arthur says it while pulling out handcuffs and Eames really wants to make an inappropriate comment. "Likewise."


	5. In Which Southern Charm Isn't What It's Cut Out To Be

* * *

" _You really think I can do this,? Peter, I'm touched."_  
"Give me a break. You could sell light switches to the Amish."  
-Neal and Peter **(White Collar)**  


* * *

He looks like something that stepped out of an old painting with the well-cut suit and his slicked back hair revealing the classically handsome features to their fullest. His cufflinks glint if he turns his wrist at the right angle and his shoes are shined to a military-worthy gleam. A pocket watch hangs on a chain from his left pocket. It looks expensive and Eames' fingers itch with the automatic urge to steal it.

He looks like fun, Eames decides, and moves to join him where he's taken to watching the crowd, a glass of something cold in hand.

"See something interesting?"

The man's eyes flick up to Eames, who is only taller by a few scant inches. Up close, his slicked back hair is fighting a losing battle with the humidity and some loose strands curl around his face. "Not anymore." His warm Southern drawl curls around the consonants and softly stretches the vowels.

"Ouch. So harsh and we've hardly spoken, daring. I just thought you could use some company."

"Don't call me that." Dark brown eyes look Eames up and down and he wonders if imagines the interest sparking in their depths. "And are you often on the lookout for lonely men?"

"They're the best kind, in my opinion." Eames smiles charmingly, raising his own glass of whiskey that he'd been working on for the better part of an hour. It wouldn't do to get drunk when he's trying to make some money off the rich folks.

He eyes the pocket watch for a second before looking back up. By his mental count, he doesn't have long before the races are over and all this money scatters back to its ranches and mansions. "I'm sorry, but do you have the time? I fear I might be late for something."

"That doesn't surprise me." The man finishes the last of his drink—sweet tea, by the smell of it and if that isn't a cliché—and sets it down on a table before fishing out his pocket watch, snapping it open with a precise movement; the man seems very very precise to Eames. Ex-military, perhaps? "Quarter to five."

Eames' mental clock isn't wrong then. He leans closer, falsely fascinated. "That is a lovely timepiece you have, sir."

"A gift from my wife last holiday. She has excellent taste, doesn't she?"

It doesn't take much for Eames to pretend to look disappointed—he'd been hoping on having something with this man, if for nothing more than a night. "A wife, is it?"

The half-smile that uncurls on the man's lips is slow and touched with a vague mischief and triumph as he pockets the watch again. "For seven years now."

"Any children?"

"Two. Anna Marie is six and Evelyn just turned four two weeks back." His accent thickens a bit, reminding Eames of melted chocolate.

"Two girls, how nice." Eames imagines that this man is the kind to dote on those girls, even as his hand slowly inches towards the pocket watch.

"They're a handful. Smart as their mother, they are." It's half a grumble, touched with fondness.

That makes Eames chuckle a little and he doesn't really have to fake it, his fingers now touching the cool silver. He slips it carefully off, not even looking because he needs to keep the man's attention. "They're going to be trouble when they're older, aren't they?"

"I dare not even think of it."

Eames leans back, palming the watch and slipping both hands in his pockets in a casual motion. "They sound wonderful."

"They are." He looks back out at the crowd. "I best be going. I don't wish to be caught in the traffic of them leaving."

"I must be leaving as well. I've got a long ride home." Eames hesitates before saying, "I never got your name."

"…Arthur." He holds out a hand—slim and lightly tanned from the Southern sun. "And you are?"

"…Eames. Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." The grip on Eames' hand tightens with a strength that Eames wouldn't have guessed from him and Arthur's left hand slips around to Eames' pocket, drawing out the stolen watch. "You're a good thief; I almost didn't catch you."

"Can't win them all, can you?"

"Of course not." The crowd that had been watching the races disperses, a sudden wall of sound and heat surrounding them. "But a word of advice," Arthur's accent is gone then, dropped like it had never been there. "Don't con a con."

Arthur disappears then, into the mass of people and Eames blinks after him and it takes him a moment before he thinks to check his pockets. He swears when he finds his wallet missing and he runs out to the front of the building to find Arthur in a car already. Arthur catches his eye before he drives away and Eames laughs a little, unable to help it.

He'd been right, he supposed, when he'd thought Arthur looked like fun. And he couldn't very well let the man get away with his wallet, could he?


	6. And One—In Which Appearances Are Almost Always Deceiving

  
_"We keep moving forward, opening new doors...because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths."_   
_-Walter Elias Disney_   


* * *

The first time he sees him, he's drugged to sleep on a hospital bed. He's heard rumors about the kid—they hadn't been lying either. The person lying in that bed doesn't look older than nineteen, maybe twenty—but he seriously doubts that that person's some CIA spy. There are some rumors of an accident out in Iraq, but nothing confirmed yet.

He's only here to see a friend of his—the doctor, in fact. Miranda Brooks is dark-haired with large eyes and she's got a spine of steel with a temperament to match and she is very much not available, by the ring on her finger.

"Eames, what're you doing here?" She asks. She's at the foot of the kid's bed, checking his chart.

"I missed the pleasure of your company, sweetheart. What else?"

She gives an unladylike snort. "Right. Trying to get out of the dreamwork today?"

Eames loves the dreamwork, loves the infinite possibilities, loves the brutal honesty of it. He hasn't mentioned to the higher-ups just how good he is at being someone he's not down there; standing out in this kind of military situation means being a lab rat for life.

But the others. The others are why he skips some days. They're too straight-laced, unwilling to try anything dangerous or new in a realm that doesn't even really exist. And sometimes, he wonders why some of them don't bend the world like he and a few others can. It's so simple, but, he supposes, it can't be that simple to everyone. Some days, he just gets bored of the military exercises.

Which has him here, because Miranda is always good company.

"I would never dream of it. What happened to this kid?" He doesn't really want to know—the kid has done nothing to catch his interest—but curiosity is an old, distant friend right now, her silver-painted lips tilted in a bemused smile as she leans on the bed beside the kid's left arm.

"Confidentiality," Miranda reminds him.

"Do I look like I can't keep a secret?" He smiles at her and where most women are charmed, she just gives him a look.

"You look like the kind of man who'd sell out a secret for enough money. Or to save your skin." Miranda is the intelligent type, one who doesn't pull punches. And she is an accurate judge of character.

* * *

The first time he hears him speak, it's from across the room. The kid isn't allowed to go under with them yet; they don't know how the somancin will react with whatever drugs are still pumping through that kid's system to fight off infection. Eames has seen the wound, when Miranda works on it. It's raw and red and it's half hidden by his waistband, but it stretches upwards, almost to his solar plexus in some places, and outwards, curling around his ribs. It's a gruesome burn and this is it half-healed. Eames can imagine the circumstances that got the kid here.

He's talking with their chemist, Roberto Gutierrez. The chemist's brilliant, if not always all there, and the military keeps a very close eye on him. After all, if he deserts, he's got enough information on the program to be a real threat.

The chemist is explaining the machine, how it works and how the somancin affects the brain. The kid listens intently and asks a lot of questions, which Roberto seems to welcome. The kid's voice is a little hoarse, likely from disuse, and quiet and his eyes are hollow-sharp. Survivor's eyes.

"What if you need to wake them in an emergency? The drug would still run through their systems and wouldn't allow to wake up, right?"

"How do you wake up from a dream?" Roberto asks. His voice is almost clean of any trace of his Cuban heritage except for the way he rolls his R's.

The kid thinks about it for a moment. "You die, I suppose. Or fall. I don't think I've ever hit the ground in a dream."

Roberto nods in approval. "Exactly."

"But how do you, outside of the dream, wake them if someone bursts in?"

Roberto blinks at him and Eames knows that they haven't thought of this situation. "…Tip them?"

"It could work." But the kid isn't saying all he's thinking, Eames can tell. And Eames wants very much to know what's going on in that head of his.

One of the other dreamers, Christopher, nudges Eames. Eames turns to focus his attention on him, though a piece of it is still with Roberto and the kid. "He was a Marine apparently. Stationed in Iraq. Name's Arthur."

Eames frowns at him. "No last name?"

Chris shakes his head. "No rank either. Kid's like a ghost."

* * *

The first time Eames meets him properly, they're in a dream. It's been three months and Miranda has cleared Arthur to work in the dreams with them. It's Arthur's third dream and his first with Eames because they work in rotations.

Eames is on a bridge, watching the officers work with the other dreamers. He'd snuck away in the momentary confusion of arriving in a dream. He hears footsteps and turns automatically.

Arthur has lean muscle on him, but he looks skinnier than he is. He's a bit shorter than Eames, but it's hard to notice when he's nearby because of the way he carries himself. Some kind of confidence or stubbornness or pride—perhaps even training—keeps his shoulders back, spine straight and head held high. In the dream, he's wearing jeans and a generic grey T-shirt, the chain of his dog tags visible just above the collar even though in reality, Eames doesn't think he's ever seen him consciously out of uniform.

"Aren't you supposed to be down there?" Eames asks, nodding at the training exercise.

"Aren't you? Besides, I heard you can do something interesting down here."

Eames feels his eyebrows reach for his hairline. "We're bending reality and you think that's not interesting?"

"Interesting is a relative term." He doesn't sound so hoarse these days, but he's still quiet.

"Not feeling like killing anyone today?" For that is what this training is for, but Eames likes to create more than he likes to destroy. They're supposed to learn how it feels to be shot, to be stabbed, to be able to work through it all. This exercise has left some of the trainees in agony for minutes that stretch on and on, stomach wounds that bleed out too slowly, broken bones that won't heal.

"Not yet, but it's still early." Arthur pushes himself off of the railing he'd been leaning against and turns, shoving his hands in his pockets as he starts to walk away.

"Going anywhere specific?"

Eames can't see Arthur's expression, but he can hear it. "We're in a dream, Mr. Eames. I can go anywhere I like."

Eames turns to see him—it's some kind of compulsion because he's the first of the people in this program to show a different kind of ambition, of adventure—and Arthur is stepping off the bridge into seemingly empty space until the stones of the bridges unfold and move to make his own personal staircase.

The kid is _good_. Eames hasn't seen that kind of effortlessness in anyone else here. When he tries to follow him down those steps, it takes him five minutes to think that this is an abnormally long staircase for such a short drop to the ground. Then he finds Arthur watching him with some kind of amusement in those survivor's eyes and when Eames looks around, he finds the staircase going in an infinite loop.

_(It's utterly fascinating, especially out of the Marine who followedorders like he was born to them and Eames wanted to know more because curiosity had draped herself over Arthur's shoulders, seductive and sleek and he knew that this was the beginning of something that's going to be a lot of trouble)_

"Is there a problem?" Arthur asks and there's no shift in expression or posture, but there's a certain mischief to him that Eames rather likes.

Eames lets himself drop the short distance to the ground, landing solidly on his feet. There is a dividing wall beneath the bridge that hadn't been there before—he can hear shots going off and screams echoing—and Eames slinks towards Arthur, letting Arthur see the change because he'd earned it.

It's a strange sensation, having to refind the measure of a shorter person's steps, of different shoes. It's strange to feel his hair down about his shoulders and feel the curves of a different body as he walks.

Arthur's eyes run up and down—in interest, certainly, but he seems to be more focused on the actual ability of transformation than the curvy blonde currently in front of him. Eames leans forward, very much in Arthur's personal space, breasts pushed up against him and his lips near Arthur's collarbone, one hand on his chest, the other hooking around his waist.

"What do you think, darling?" Eames asks. His voice is alien to him, a higher pitch that vibrates differently in his throat. "Is this interesting enough for you?"

The corner of Arthur's lip curls into a smirk, his eyes cool. "It'll do. And don't call me darling."


End file.
